Shen Qingwu was seriously injured.

She had killed the murderer, then forced the others to reveal where the Miao girl was being held. In the end she killed everyone, then helped Chang Lin out of the reed marsh.

Her mind was hazy, and the pain came in waves. But none of that was enough to bring her down.

What brought her down was: Zhang Xingjian likes Shen Qingwu.

Shen Qingwu stood among the reeds, white and gold intermingling in the light. A long time passed before she managed, with great difficulty, to bend down again and hoist Chang Lin—whom she had knocked unconscious herself—back onto her shoulders.

She carried him out of the reed marsh, trudging a long way beneath the pale moonlight.

She walked hazily toward the direction of the town, fragments of words surfacing again and again in her mind.

The murderer had said: “Bo Shuai will tell you everything.”

The murderer had also said: “The farther you are from him, the more the soul-binding gu will hurt him.”

Chang Lin, lying in a pool of blood, had murmured: “He likes you—likes you to the point of madness.”

Chang Lin had also said: “He wants to marry you.”

So then—

What kind of liking was liking to the point of madness?

What kind of feeling was wanting to marry someone?

Shen Qingwu couldn’t help but think of all the signs from recent days—

Ever since the pursuit at the cliff, Zhang Xingjian had indulged her every whim, cared for her tenderly. With him she had experienced things she’d never experienced before, and he explained it all away as “desire.”

Shen Qingwu had simply believed him.

What a fool she must be.

In Zhang Xingjian’s eyes, wasn’t she just that sort of person—stupid beyond measure?

When he didn’t like her, he cast her aside and schemed endlessly to sever ties with her; when he did like her, he wove an inescapable net, used every means at his disposal, to trap her at his side.

He called it desire.

But explaining it as love, really, made more sense—

She’d always thought—how could a man so cool and aloof, so seemingly without feeling, ever be troubled by something as mundane as “desire”?

She’d always thought—he kept insisting it was desire, but sending her beautiful clothes, making her laugh, holding her, talking with her heart to heart, wanting to read and write beside her, even wanting to play chess with her… what did any of that have to do with “desire”?

It was nothing but a means to an end.

A means to court her. A means to trap her. A means to bend the whole world to his will.

But what right did he have?

What right did he have!

She had never expected anything from him, because to him she was only prey. But there was no such thing in this world as prey wanting to marry the hunter. And yet feelings, love—were those things that could be summoned and dismissed at will?

Toward him, she felt—so, so, so much longing!

During all that time she had gone to any lengths to have him, during every night of kisses and embraces, during all the moments she hadn’t understood his hints—what had Zhang Xingjian been thinking?

“General Shen!”

The sound of galloping horses and shouting men made Shen Qingwu, who had been walking with her head bowed, look up.

Beneath the bright moon, a group of guards came riding toward her and Chang Lin.

They were Zhang Xingjian’s death-sworn retainers; he had once had her memorize each of their faces.

Shen Qingwu thought: was that when Zhang Xingjian had started to like her?

The guards leapt from their horses and rushed, stricken, toward Shen Qingwu and Chang Lin, both covered in blood.

Shen Qingwu’s pale blue-and-white robes were already filthy with blood, and her raised face bore mottled streaks of it as well. Chang Lin, whom she was supporting, was even worse off—his breath was so faint that one could barely feel it even up close.

The guards said, “General Shen, how did you end up in this state? Did you catch the murderer? Where is he—”

Shen Qingwu closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

She gestured for them to take Chang Lin. “He’s dying. Take him back. Have Zhang Yuelu save him.”

Then, coldly, “Lend me a horse.”

She didn’t tell them what she had gone through, didn’t tell them what part Bo Rong had played in it, didn’t mention that the murderer was dead, didn’t say how many people she had killed. Chang Lin’s life was what concerned them most—after all, their lord had told them that when it mattered most, their own side’s lives came first.

Shen Qingwu mounted a horse.

She turned it to leave, and one of the guards hastily grabbed the reins to stop her. “General Shen, where are you going? You can’t just wander off… our lord, our lord… he can’t be without you!”

The guard’s tone was urgent, and what he meant, clearly, was the matter of the soul-binding gu.

But Shen Qingwu heard something else in it—a hint of romantic feeling.

How laughable.

She lowered her eyes and said flatly, “The girl who cast the soul-binding gu has been captured. I’m going to save her. Saving her means saving your lord. Let go.”

The guards froze, then stepped back in unison, watching the blood-soaked, exhausted Second Young Lady Shen mount her horse and ride hard into the moonlight. Along the winding slope, dust rose and swallowed her figure.

Only once she was out of sight did they realize: Shen Qingwu was gravely wounded—they should have gone with her to help. But she had seemed so fierce, so formidable, that none of them had thought to react in time.

They all trusted her. They had all sparred with her. They believed she would surely find the girl and come back to save their lord; meanwhile, they had to get Chang Lin back first, to save him.

Shen Qingwu rode alone straight into a secret encampment.

Before he died, she had forced the murderer to tell her where the Miao girl was being held.

He had warned her not to act rashly, not to ruin Bo Shuai’s plans. He’d told her there were more men at the camp, and without a guide she would never find the girl.

So what?

She didn’t care.

She rode her horse into the deep forest, pushing into the enemy’s encirclement through thick fog. She had real skill, real martial arts—flipping, rolling, climbing, striking, leaping from horseback across the hillside, killing men as she sprang along tree branches—

Even badly wounded, even as more injuries piled onto her, Shen Qingwu did not falter.

She pushed deeper into that place for one purpose only: to find the captive Miao girl.

That “soul-binding gu”—it had been a mistake from the start.

She should have broken it long ago.

But when she’d asked before, Chang Lin and the others hadn’t gone looking for the Miao girl. Never mind—if they wouldn’t find her, she would. Let her find this innocent girl caught up in it all, take her away, have her undo the gu, and sever whatever bound her to Zhang Xingjian.

Then she could leave freely, and go find Bo Rong.

Shen Qingwu wasn’t afraid of fighting.

The whole time she pushed through the forest to rescue the girl, her mind kept circling back to her own absurd, laughable love story.

She began to hate Zhang Xingjian.

She didn’t understand what right he had to say he liked her, what right he had to like someone as flawed as her, someone mired in her own ruin, unable to save herself.

In her mind, a great autumn rain began to fall, pattering down.

Hazily she was drawn back to that rainy night from years ago—standing in the rain, hearing Zhang Xingjian call her name. She turned and looked into the downpour.

That handsome young man, in her memory, was flawless in every way—his peach-blossom eyes gazing at her as if she were someone he truly loved, as if she were different from everyone else, as if he felt something for her.

Clang—

Her horse stumbled and she was thrown from the saddle. She scrambled up out of the mud and drove her blade into the throat of the enemy lunging at her. From below she looked up as hot blood sprayed across her face; the man died with his eyes open. She flung his body aside and pressed on into the night, toward the next place.

As the hot blood splattered her face, what she thought of was the image of Zhang Xingjian lying in a pool of blood.

That devastatingly handsome young man had said: “Second Young Lady Shen, that oath you swore—it was nothing but a few careless words. An oath spoken aloud means nothing. I don’t believe it.”

He’d said it meant nothing.

So she’d answered him with a dagger.

And in her heart, she had known all along just how serious she’d been—

“From this night forward, Shen Qingwu has nothing whatsoever to do with Zhang Xingjian. Shen Qingwu will never marry Zhang Xingjian. I can say these words here, and I can repeat them anywhere, again and again, and never take them back.

“If I am ever so unfortunate as to marry Zhang Xingjian, then may I be struck by thunder and die a wretched death, and fall into hell for all eternity, never to be freed.”

Who would want to go to hell?

Who would want to go to hell?!

Shen Qingwu did not deserve to be loved.

Zhang Yuelu ought not to like her—still less want to marry her.

Whatever debts lay between them, she hadn’t wanted to settle them. But if he insisted on liking her too much, on daring to seek her hand—then she would settle that debt with him.

Shhk—

The bloody blade plunged in, and another man died.

Shen Qingwu staggered up from the ground, dizzy, no longer certain how many people she had killed that night.

A thin, trembling, tear-choked girl’s voice pulled her out of her numbness: “Miss… miss, I’m here.”

Shen Qingwu lowered her head and wiped at the blood on her own face with the back of her hand.

She couldn’t get it clean. The more she wiped, the more blood there seemed to be.

She gave up in the end and followed the voice instead. Beneath a tree stump she found a young girl bound hand and foot. She cut the ropes, and the girl threw herself at her, sobbing, arms around her neck.

The Miao girl wailed, “I know you people! What rotten luck, eight lifetimes of it!”

“Wuuu, I was so scared… why did it take you so long? Why did it take you so long?!”

Shen Qingwu’s mind was fogged with exhaustion.

It was pure will alone that got the Miao girl up onto the horse with her.

She sat in front, guiding the horse, trying to find the way back. In truth she had already lost the path—the endless trees hemmed her in, as if years of tangled heartache had grown into thick vines, trapping her within them.

But an old horse knows the way home.

The Miao girl clung to her the whole time, riding double, arms locked around her waist. Perhaps sensing Shen Qingwu’s coldness, perhaps afraid of being abandoned in the wilderness, the girl kept sniffling and trying to coax her with sweet words:

“Miss Shen, you’re really amazing. What a shame you’re a woman—if you were a man, I’d throw myself at you and insist on marrying you.”

“Miss Shen, why don’t you come back to the Miao lands with me? You’re so pretty and so skilled in a fight—there’d be no shortage of men there who’d want you! And that soul-binding gu—you’d never have to use it again.”

“You want me to undo the soul-binding gu? Wuuu, I can’t. I told you, that gu is powerful—my mother and father spent ages perfecting it. Undoing it is far, far more complicated… Why don’t you and your sweetheart come back to the Miao lands with me, and we can work it out slowly…”

“Fine, fine—I can suppress it a little, just a little… but I really can’t undo it. Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you angry? Don’t—don’t leave me behind.”

Shen Qingwu said nothing the whole way.

The Miao girl chattered on the whole way.

Clouds drifted across the sky, the bright moon slipping in and out of view, dust rising as the horse galloped on. This vast human world, this long road of red dust—how it could make a person’s heart ache.

Shen Qingwu drove the horse faster and faster, gripping the reins and calling out, “Hyah—”

The Miao girl clung to her even tighter in fright. “Don’t leave me behind—”

Shen Qingwu couldn’t hear any of it. All she heard was the wind, the murderer’s laughter, Chang Lin’s murmuring, the endless autumn rain of years past. All those scattered sounds tangled together in her mind, growing louder, more chaotic.

And then, cutting through the chaos, came a clear, gentle voice: “Wutong.”

Shen Qingwu’s hand trembled on the reins.

The voice came again, clearer still: “Wutong—”

She opened her eyes and lifted her head.

Beneath the bright moon, scattered lights glimmered. So the horse, running all this way, had already carried her back this close.

On the wide plain she saw a graceful young man on horseback, robes flying, riding toward her.

He must have been suffering from the soul-binding gu.

Shen Qingwu sat straight in the saddle, watching him approach with cold composure.

Zhang Xingjian’s face was pale as snow, utterly bloodless, the veins at his throat drawn taut, the hand gripping the reins white with strain.

He was slender and beautiful, his eyes dark and lustrous, like clear moonlight.

He really was, just as he’d once said, extraordinarily good at enduring.

Shen Qingwu knew the soul-binding gu must have flared up in him, but aside from his pallor and the ever-deepening black of his eyes, nothing else showed. Perhaps he had already coughed blood; perhaps somewhere out of her sight he had been in so much pain he couldn’t move.

And yet the Zhang Xingjian standing before her showed not the slightest sign of discomfort.

The Miao girl peeked out from behind Shen Qingwu’s back, whispering in shock, “Didn’t the pain knock him out? Is he even human?”

Shen Qingwu said, eyes lowered, “He’s not human.”

How could he be?

A man who could endure to such an extreme for the sake of a goal—what could possibly stop him from succeeding?

What right did he have?

Shen Qingwu’s head and body ached.

She fell from the horse, and in her hazy, half-conscious state, wondered whether she, like Chang Lin, was about to die.

She never hit the grass. Under the Miao girl’s astonished gaze, the young man leapt from his horse and caught Shen Qingwu in his arms.

Her closed lashes trembled faintly.

She knelt on the ground, completely enfolded in Zhang Xingjian’s embrace. She caught the scent of him—like moonlight. She was too exhausted even to open her eyes; she didn’t want to look at him.

She had brought the Miao girl back. He wouldn’t die from being too far from her. She had done all that duty required.

Shen Qingwu murmured, “…It hurts so much.”

Green plains, white egrets taking flight.

Her hair clung to her cheeks as she knelt in Zhang Xingjian’s arms, her head slowly drooping.

White feathers scattered across the sky, and the bright moon hung serene above.

Zhang Xingjian held her tightly, gently brushing the hair from her face. He felt the cold sweat on her cheek, saw the blood on her body. The Miao girl sat frozen on the horse, not daring to move, watching him hold Shen Qingwu so tenderly.

Everyone was a little afraid of Shen Qingwu when she was like this.

The Miao girl thought of her as a savior, and yet feared her all the same.

The only one who dared lift that blood-soaked woman into his arms was this young man dressed in white as snow, elegant as ever. Without a trace of disgust he wiped the blood from her, covered her eyes with his hand, and ached for her.

Zhang Xingjian’s heart was in pieces.

At that moment, he would rather have suffered a thousand cuts himself than see her hurt like this.

His voice hoarse, he said, “…Wutong, don’t be afraid. I’m late. It’s my fault.”

He coaxed her: “Sleep for a while, won’t you? I’ll take you home.”

Shen Qingwu thought—she had no home.

She was busy. Once she left the Miao girl somewhere safe, she had to go. She needed to find Bo Rong, needed him to answer some questions.

But Zhang Xingjian’s voice was so gentle, his embrace so warm, and she hurt so much, was so tired…

Shen Qingwu closed her eyes.

Softly, she said, “I’ll sleep a while.”

…Sleep a while, get her strength back, and then deal with what came next—

Zhang Xingjian had no idea what Shen Qingwu and Chang Lin had gone through, what had happened to them.

After Chang Lin was brought back, Zhang Xingjian had ordered the finest physicians to treat him, while also sending his retainers back out of the city to search for Shen Qingwu and for the people she had killed.

Until Chang Lin woke, Zhang Xingjian could only piece together what had happened from these fragments.

And before his men had caught up with her, it was Zhang Xingjian himself who, enduring the pain of being too far from her, had left the city to search for her.

The soul-binding gu had its uses, sometimes.

Along with the immense suffering it brought him, it let him roughly sense the direction she’d gone. Guided by the pain that felt as though it would split his whole body apart, he could judge her general position. Coughing blood again and again, his meridians trembling as if about to snap—by the time Zhang Xingjian mounted his horse, he was drenched in cold sweat, his whole body weak, his vision going dark.

But he had found her anyway.

The soul-binding gu created a kind of illusion, too.

In the moment before he saw her, he had been cold with agony throughout his body; the instant she appeared, all the pain vanished, and he found the strength to dismount, the strength to gather her into his arms.

That contrast—the pain before, the relief after—could sometimes create the illusion of “love.”

He supposed that was the true nature of the soul-binding gu: a balance struck between loss and gain, from which feeling arose, from which love was born.

Zhang Xingjian understood this with perfect clarity. But he knew his own heart, knew that all his joy and all his aching tenderness had nothing to do with the gu. He liked Shen Qingwu—liked her more and more—and how could a mere insect have any say in that?

He had someone take the Miao girl off to rest, planning to question her about what had happened the next day.

Frightened and drained, the girl had no energy left to say more, and let herself be led away obediently. Zhang Xingjian carried Shen Qingwu back to the city.

In a carriage he’d borrowed for the moment, he undressed her carefully, checking her over from head to toe, applying medicine to every new wound, large and small.

Because she was injured so often, he had already begun having his men develop a fine salve—one that would help wounds heal without scarring. The woman who held his heart had too many battles ahead of her; he didn’t want to cage her, and he knew, as any woman would, that she cared about her appearance too. He meant to have many such remedies made, for her use alone.

Once he’d examined her and finished applying the medicine, he let out a soft breath of relief. Though she had many wounds, none were serious—mostly superficial. Her skill really was extraordinary. Her unconsciousness now was, most likely, simple exhaustion.

Once she’d rested enough, she’d be fine.

He took up a damp cloth and wiped the blood from her cheeks. Then he found, tucked away in the carriage, a set of women’s clothes he’d prepared for her in advance, and changed her into them.

Patiently he cleaned every trace of blood from her, then carried her out of the carriage on his back, walking the rest of the night’s road on foot.

The carriage wasn’t his; the driver had long since grown impatient. He would carry her the rest of the way himself.

Shen Qingwu’s breath fell faintly against his neck, her sweat-damp hair sticking to his skin. He carried her from streets bright with lanterns into streets where the light grew dim.

He drew strange looks from those around him.

Lovers carried their lanterns; young men and women walked in twos and threes, and they all stared oddly at Zhang Xingjian and the unconscious woman on his back.

It was the Lantern Festival—the moon at its fullest, the whole world in celebration.

Zhang Xingjian turned his face away, avoiding their eyes.

He needed to avoid those joyful faces, needed not to look at the young women coquettishly clinging to their sweethearts, in order to hold down the unfairness and resentment rising in his chest:

They were all young women.

They had all been raised by loving parents.

Why was it that other women got to admire the lanterns tonight, while his woman lay gravely wounded, her breath faint?

Zhang Xingjian didn’t take Shen Qingwu back to their lodgings.

Instead he carried her to a long alley, sat down against the wall, and held her close, wrapping his cloak tightly around her. He waited there quietly. It was the Lantern Festival, after all, and he didn’t want to let it pass entirely unmarked.

He had checked her wounds—they weren’t so severe. She should wake soon. And the festival wasn’t over yet.

His judgment proved right.

Shen Qingwu slept for roughly two hours before she slowly began to stir. When she opened her eyes, she found herself curled in Zhang Xingjian’s arms. Looking up, she saw the smooth line of his jaw, the elegant curve of his throat.

She wasn’t cold at all—the cloak was warm, and so was his embrace.

She stared at his jaw, lost in thought.

Just as exhausted as she was, he lowered his head and met her dark eyes.

There was, for some reason, a faint redness in the whites of his glossy black eyes. Before she could look closer, he blinked and reached out to stroke her forehead.

He smiled gently. “Awake?”

In her mind, Shen Qingwu was thinking: he wants to marry me.

She said nothing, didn’t move. Zhang Xingjian assumed her odd habit of silence had struck again. He had his own tricks for coaxing her, and they always worked. Eyes curving with his smile, he said:

“Wutong. Happy Lantern Festival.”

“Let me give you a gift,” he said. “Will you let me?”

Only then did she remember—before they’d left the city, she’d been looking forward to his gift.

Though now, she no longer wanted it, no longer looked forward to anything.

Zhang Xingjian, of course, knew none of this.

He slowly rose, helping her sit up against the wall. Shen Qingwu watched him coldly, wondering what new trick he meant to use to trick her into marrying him, as he walked a little farther down the alley.

There was a small bucket there.

Blurred lantern-light hung against the two walls.

Shen Qingwu didn’t bother looking closely.

She simply kept her cold gaze fixed on his retreating figure, mentally tearing him apart, thinking of the best way to make him pay.

Then, suddenly—

Bang.

Fireworks shot into the sky.

Both walls of lanterns lit up at once.

A world of brilliant color spread out before her in an instant.

Shen Qingwu looked up—

Firework after firework, lit one by one by Zhang Xingjian, streaked into the night sky.

On both walls hung rows of square lanterns, densely packed, countless in number. They spun gently in the cold wind—revolving lanterns, each painted with an image.

Little dogs and cats, drawn with lifelike detail. As the lanterns spun faster, the dogs and cats seemed to run across them, chasing one another, impossible to tell which led and which followed.

The tassels at the corners of the lanterns brushed softly against their frames.

The flames inside glowed bright as they were lit one after another, and the whole radiant world blazed with color.

And with each burst of fireworks, a deafening crack rang out; the scent of gunpowder drifted through the air.

The world was so still.

The world was so full of noise.

The bright moon hung above; the dust of the world stretched below. The lanternlight lit the slender figure of the young man, his robes billowing.

Lanterns climbed the walls in clusters; fireworks bloomed one after another in the sky.

This world, so achingly beautiful!

Shen Qingwu braced herself against the wall and stood, gazing up at the fireworks above and the lanterns below.

The layered booms of the fireworks were like one gorgeous dream unfolding and vanishing, again and again.

At some point, Zhang Xingjian had come to stand beside her.

He gently took her hand.

Leaning close to her ear, so that she—still transfixed, staring up at the lanterns and fireworks—could hear him, he said:

“Do you like it?

“It’s yours alone. No one else has this.

“I painted the pictures on the lanterns myself. The cat and dog—that was just my little joke. I meant nothing mocking or careless by it, toward you.”

Shen Qingwu murmured, “A foolish little dog, and a clever little cat?”

He watched her face closely.

The five-colored firelight reflected in her eyes, which were damp and quiet, showing no suspicion of his motives. Seeing she wasn’t angry, he dared to admit it, his eyes curving as he smiled:

“That’s right.”

She asked, “What were you thinking?”

“Hm?”

She looked at the spinning lanterns. “Were you thinking—that the foolish dog and the clever cat would stay together forever, happy together for a whole lifetime?”

He smiled. “I meant nothing more than what I said—but if that’s what you’d like to think, I won’t argue.”

He kept teasing her, saying playful things, trying to erase the effects of the night’s battle, trying to make her forget her injuries and remember only the beauty of the festival.

As he spoke, he watched her gaze fixed unblinking on the fireworks and lanterns, the glow reflected in her eyes, layer upon layer of firelight rippling as if she were falling into a winding river of stars—

The river of stars shimmered, its waves rising and stilling.

Tears fell from Shen Qingwu’s eyes.

She kept staring, unblinking, at the fireworks above.

Zhang Xingjian froze.

He reached out to wipe her tears away.

It was the first time he had ever seen her cry, and it startled him so badly that he immediately began wondering what he had done wrong.

Shen Qingwu bled, sweated, but never cried—never even offered so much as an apology. How could she possibly be crying?

And yet here she was, undeniably crying.

He held her close. “I’m sorry—if you don’t like it, forget all this, I’ll get you something else…”

She said nothing. Tears kept falling, her face utterly expressionless. She looked at him with reddened, blank eyes, and as he fumbled through his apology, she leaned in, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him—

The tears kept falling.

She felt as though she had lost something.

She felt as though she had gained something.

Why did losing and gaining both hurt so much?

At five years old, she had trailed after Shen Jie.

She’d said, “Brother, I want to go see the lanterns with you too.”

Shen Jie had looked troubled. “Qingwu, why don’t you stay home? I’ll come back early and set off fireworks with you in the back garden.”

But Shen Jie never came back.

Because their father and mother had taken him to meet influential people who admired his talent. The whole family had enjoyed themselves as honored guests, while young Shen Qingwu sat alone in the courtyard all night watching the moon, until she finally fell asleep—

At ten, Shen Qingwu, dressed in castoff clothes no one else wanted, played chase across walls and trees with the other children.

The servants below cursed at her: “How dare you take Third Young Lady’s lantern! Even if she doesn’t want it anymore, it’s still not yours to take!”

In the end, she’d been locked up as punishment.

She watched the moon through the crack in the door.

She watched it the whole night through—

Sometimes, she truly did love the moon.

The moon that had kept her company through so many long nights—

At sixteen, Zhang Xingjian and Shen Qingye had climbed towers with their elders and relatives, watching lanterns, admiring flowers, composing poems.

Shen Qingwu, disguised as a boy, had slipped into the Yizhou army.

Surrounded on all sides by death, she hadn’t even gotten a bowl of tangyuan on the Lantern Festival—

At sixteen, on that autumn night in the rain.

Shen Qingwu had said, “From this night forward, Shen Qingwu has nothing whatsoever to do with Zhang Xingjian. Shen Qingwu will never marry Zhang Xingjian. I can say these words here, and I can repeat them anywhere, again and again, and never take them back.

“If I am ever so unfortunate as to marry Zhang Xingjian, then may I be struck by thunder and die a wretched death, and fall into hell for all eternity, never to be freed.”

At twenty, on the Lantern Festival, amid silk robes and fine perfume.

Shen Qingwu had said, “Whoever betrays me can go to hell.”

Zhang Xingjian—

Go to hell.

Now, at twenty-two, on this Lantern Festival, the lights burning bright.

Amid the flickering lanterns and fireworks, Shen Qingwu wept, held in Zhang Xingjian’s arms.

She kissed him.

She kissed him almost wildly, fierce emotion pouring through her lips, until Zhang Xingjian felt she seemed half out of her mind.

But he soothed her gently.

She asked softly, “Do you want to sleep with me?”

He froze.

He smiled. “You’re hurt, Wutong. What kind of beast do you take me for…”

Then, afraid she might misread his hesitation, he added, by way of excuse, “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, once you’ve healed, and make it up to me then?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Alright.”

But there was no tomorrow.

Deep in the night, Zhang Xingjian, half asleep, reached out and touched the cold, empty space beside him, the blanket kicked aside.

A sudden foreboding jolted him fully awake.

By lamplight, there was no trace of Shen Qingwu in his bed. The woman who, just hours before, had lain in his arms kissing him with such passion, had vanished like foam on water, without a trace.

Panic seized him.

He told himself it was probably that strange habit of hers again—that she’d suddenly wanted to go back and sleep in her own quarters. He’d ask her tomorrow what was wrong with his bed, and see if he could fix it…

He took up a lamp and went out to find her.

He told himself he only wanted to check—that he wasn’t trying to force her to sleep at his side.

He pushed open the door to her room and found it cold and empty. Shen Qingwu had never come back at all.

In that cold emptiness, Zhang Xingjian suddenly doubled over, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling a sharp, twisting pain—

The bright moon slipped behind the clouds.

Zhang Xingjian mounted his horse and plunged into the darkness.

He rode hard toward the city gate, gripping the horse tight with his knees, cold sweat pouring down as he raced after her—

“Wutong!

“Shen Qingwu—!”

Beneath the vast night sky, the moon bright as day.

A single trunk lashed to her horse, Shen Qingwu rode on, the city behind her growing smaller and smaller.

She heard him calling. She turned back to look at the city walls, the lights, behind her.

Shadows of trees swayed, moonlight fell clear and cold, and the young man in white, bright as snow, grew farther and farther away on his horse.

The silver moon hung high above, distant and lovely, offering up a dream both beautiful and cruel.

That was the moon she would never forget as long as she lived.

His robes fluttered in the wind, the moonlight hazy, the night cold as frost.

He was the moon hanging in the sky.

She was a splash of mud in a puddle on the ground.

The moonlight fell on someone else. For one moment, the moon had looked at her.

…But she didn’t want it.